“Ay, and a kind one too,” said one of the guests. “Pray heaven, sir, your wife do not send you a worse.”
“I hope, better,” replied Petruchio.
“Signor Biondello, go and entreat my wife to come to me forthwith,” said Hortensio.
“O, ho! entreat her!” laughed Petruchio. “Nay, then, she must needs come.”
“I am afraid, sir, do what you can, yours will not be entreated,” retorted Hortensio. Then, as the messenger returned, “Now, where’s my wife?”
“She says you have some goodly jest in hand; she will not come. She bids you go to her.”
“Worse and worse, ‘she will not come!’” said Petruchio. “Intolerable, not to be endured! Grumio, go to your mistress: say I command her to come to me.”
“I know her answer,” said Hortensio.
“What?”
“She will not come.”